Sentiment
by Owlett
Summary: "Why, after taking all these necessary steps to avoid being noticed, was he standing in the doorway of one John Watson's apartment watching his former roommate, colleague, friend, slumbering?" -Part 2 in the Post-Fall series-


Mycroft had informed Sherlock of the move. About how John hadn't stayed a single night at Baker Street since the funeral. Sherlock understood. He would have torched the place had the situation been reversed. Left no physical evidence, no tangible memories. Everything would have been locked away in his mind palace indefinitely. He had no place for sentiment.

Then again, that was hardly true now was it? He still had Irene Adler's phone, why had he wanted to keep that? He had bested her in the end. Sentiment was exactly what brought her plan crashing down. Sentiment was what lead him to be standing on the roof of St. Bart's trying his best to convince John Watson that he wasn't the type of person worth caring about.

He had defeated Moriarty - not on his terms, but he had still come out better off. Thanks to his convincing suicide stunt he was able to wander London and the rest of Europe unnoticed. He had taken the precautions of dying his hair, letting what little facial hair he could manage grow, and of course changing his walk. He never wore his trademark coat, not even in the coldest climates. That would be too risky, that would be too painful. That coat was threaded with memories of John, of Baker Street, of the life he had to continue to evade.

So why, after taking all these necessary steps to avoid being noticed, was he standing in the doorway of one John Watson's apartment watching his former roommate, colleague, _friend, _slumbering? Surely this was not only against social norms, something Sherlock rarely cared for, but the very opposite of practical. This was not cold calculated logic. This was purely a selfish adventure, one that could very well ruin everything.

Despite the risk Sherlock was by no means stupid. He had been observing the former army doctor's living pattern for the past week. He knew which floorboards squeaked and how far you could open a door without it creaking. He knew that John never locked the kitchen window, a fact which Sherlock found rather foolish. Then again, perhaps John wasn't expecting anyone to climb through a third story kitchen window to watch him sleep.

John Watson, the ever practical man, never slept unprotected. Sherlock knew his gun was snug under his pillow and his cane rested against the bed post; not just to assist the return of his limp, but to swing with purpose should he be disturbed.

That was what Sherlock admired most about John, he always appeared so unassuming, the quiet doctor in the dowdy jumpers. Awkward with women. Awkward in general. Except all those initial visual assumptions were wrong. He was a strong, tortured man filled with determination, courage and kindness. And they were only he first five layers Sherlock had unlocked. John Watson was more Pandora's box than man. The great detective couldn't help but wonder if perhaps the good doctor kept more secrets than himself. Not more secrets than Mycroft, the man kept secrets like he ate cake(in abundance). No, John wasn't secretive on purpose. Only when it was necessarily to protect someone, or himself, from being hurt. Secrets for the sake of others.

If Sherlock had the luxury he would have sighed. Not in admiration or infatuation, nothing as arbitrary as that, more in dismay. He couldn't help but think to himself, "If I wasn't who I am. How I am. We could still be at Baker Street."

John's new apartment was a one-bedroom set up, the kitchen mere metres from his bed, the bathroom tucked away barely the size of a closet. Sherlock assumed the man had known far less comfortable accommodation in the war; still, it was smaller than the place he lived in before he came to Baker Street and Sherlock had to wonder why. He was making extra money from publishing his stories online and to papers. John made certain to publish to places that would support his views of Sherlock Holmes. No slander. No propaganda. He also had more hours at the surgery, so why was he slumming it?

Mycroft had told Sherlock that John had offered to continue to pay rent on the Baker Street apartment despite no longer wishing to stay there. Mycroft had insisted that was unnecessary and even threatened to have the money automatically rewired back into his account should John press the matter. Clearly this place was a personal choice. Anonymity. The bare essentials.

Despite having the second best deducing skills in the world he couldn't quite work out this decision.

Asking John would no doubt give him the answer. It wouldn't be hard to do so. John was a light sleeper but not light enough to detect Sherlock and his years of perfected stealth.  
Should Sherlock clear his throat John would sit bolt upright, gun cocked, trigger finger ready and then they could talk. That is providing John didn't shoot him first.

Sherlock was pretty confident that John wouldn't shoot him. He would have a few seconds for the doctor's initial shock to wear off to move himself out of the line of fire. He wasn't going to wake him, though. There were still a few more of Moriarty's minions to eradicate before he could reconnect with his past.

Would it be as easy as slipping on his old coat and knocking on John's door? Or would it be better done via email. No he would never believe that. A text?

Perhaps. Even then such things could be considered a hoax. There was already enough fraud linked to the consulting detective he didn't need to sow any more seeds of doubt. Not that John had doubted him for a second. That was what ultimately lead Sherlock to be standing there, breathing in short shallow breaths, hardly moving a muscle. It was John's endless trust in him that had most surprised and enamoured him.

Perhaps he could write a note and hide it in the apartment. Inside a tea tin or somewhere more inconspicuous? A place that would take John, a man who often sees but doesn't observe, some time to find.

Sherlock was sincerely sorry for the way things had turned out during his final showdown with Moriarty. He hadn't realised just how sorry till he heard John's voice break with emotion while he whispered words of hope over Sherlock's headstone.

"_Don't be dead."_

How Sherlock wished he wasn't the man he was, a man that was dead to the army Doctor, to everyone, bar one Molly Hooper and his brother Mycroft. Eliminating oneself to destroy one's enemy is sometimes necessary, and enemies were something Sherlock had an abundance of. More than John had ever suspected. More than John had even become aware of since the detective's "death".

In fact Sherlock Holmes, the world's only consulting detective, had just the one friend and as he turned and silently slipped back out of the man's apartment he hoped, with all that he had come to learn was his heart, that he would still be able to call John Watson his friend once this was over.

Sentiment, as it turns out, is not just found on the losing side.


End file.
